


Adventures of Always Winter

by AsIWasNotAsIAm



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Gen, Talking Animals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-03-02 21:32:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18819415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsIWasNotAsIAm/pseuds/AsIWasNotAsIAm
Summary: Tormund and Ghost's adventures North and Beyond the Wall.





	1. hum of the night

Before winter, the free folk had come South for fear of the Others and their army. His people had allied with Jon Snow, the King in the North, against the Long Night. Now, the Others were defeated, Jon was no longer a king and Tormund was a free man with no folk. Tormund was ready to return to the true north. He had only Ghost with him now, a fierce and furry companion.

"What have I told you about splashing about? You only freeze your pel- " he stopped short as bright red eyes held his own in a scowl. It would take Tormund some time to get used to Ghost's...abilities.  
"Must you use that word," Ghost whined, ears drooping.

Tormund privately congratulated himself on his progress, however. He rarely flinched anymore whenever a direwolf's howl waned into a northern boy's cry.

The day that Jon left Winterfell, Tormund was in a flurry of excitement that threatened to become a blizzard enveloping those unfortunate enough to come across him. He was sorry to see Jon leave, but he would be sorrier to join a kneeler cause. Though the crow had become a wolf again, he was dragon meat all the same. The south could fight over their castles and keeps, but with the army of the dead and their cold masters gone, there were long forgotten lands to be rediscovered. The further north he went, the freer, the deeper in the Old Ways he would be, treading along plains not known to a living man since the First Men.

Tormund watched from the battlements as Jon's party rode further into the distance, until the banners became lost in the snow. Then he was bounding down toward the kennels. As he neared, he saw his charge lapping at his wounds, slobbering over raw flesh and matted fur. 

"What is wrong with people these days," someone was muttering, "-can't even make a proper poultice."  
Tormund span around the room on his heel, confused. The kennels were empty, the owner of the voice hidden from his searching eyes. Ghost raised his head, whining in his direction, almost gloomily. Tormund looked over his shoulder, flabbergasted. "Where are they, boy?"

Ghost growled, rising on his hind legs. Tormund expected to hear more growling when the direwolf opened his mouth, but instead he heard... "So, he's left me with you, who didn't even bother to check my cuts. I can get infections too, you know."

Tormund had suckled from a giant's teat, he had tasted weird. Tormund had seen dragons... had held on for dear life on one. He'd seen men (and a dragon!) rise from the dead by the magic of an icy demon. He'd known wargs. But nothing could have prepared him for Jon Snow's talking direwolf.


	2. dew, and all things new

The Gift, the Southerners called it. Tormund had fought all his life for these lands. Raid after raid, plundering and pillaging. Now, the barren tundra before him was nothing to covet. The Others had desolated these lands far beyond the lusty dreams of any raiding party.

He had lived too long a wild man to accept gifts now. That being said, he considered his life a gift from the gods. He felt that the fire within him had been doused, he would not test the gods, would not set ablaze ashes, but he would not burrow in dead soil to make his own grave. The kisses of fire were cracked whispers, blisters along his skin. 

His children were lost to him, just as the children of true north were now scattered by the winds of winter. But that was the way of the free folk, as ever-changing, and yet as stubborn, as trees. They would not settle, just as snow does not find ground in a snow storm. 

They were set for Eastwatch, and further than that, for visions of mountain keeps and the cavern halls of giants. Driftwood found along the coast was worked by quick hands and curious paws into to a sled which carried Ghost more often than it did Tormund. Lazy biter. 

But Tormund could not deny his friend the palpable joy of flying down sloshy hills. Ghost had been without reprieve from conflict his whole life, as the runt of his litter and as the runt of Winterfell's runt. Companion to a crow and a king, a man who walked with death shadowing his each step. 

For them, the dew on the canopy of leaves they woke under, felt like the cool promise of life in its most unbridled and pure form. Under thick foliage, a single droplet was a star.


End file.
